MONSIGNOR MONTANELLI arrived in Florence
in the first week of October. His visit caused a
little flutter of excitement throughout the town.
He was a famous preacher and a representative of
the reformed Papacy; and people looked eagerly
to him for an exposition of the "new doctrine,"
the gospel of love and reconciliation which was to
cure the sorrows of Italy. The nomination of
Cardinal Gizzi to the Roman State Secretaryship
in place of the universally detested Lambruschini
had raised the public enthusiasm to its highest
pitch; and Montanelli was just the man who could
most easily sustain it. The irreproachable strictness
of his life was a phenomenon sufficiently rare
among the high dignitaries of the Roman Church
to attract the attention of people accustomed to
regard blackmailing, peculation, and disreputable
intrigues as almost invariable adjuncts to the
career of a prelate. Moreover, his talent as a
preacher was really great; and with his beautiful
voice and magnetic personality, he would in any
time and place have made his mark.
Grassini, as usual, strained every nerve to get
the newly arrived celebrity to his house; but
Montanelli was no easy game to catch. To all
invitations he replied with the same courteous but
positive refusal, saying that his health was bad and
his time fully occupied, and that he had neither
strength nor leisure for going into society.
"What omnivorous creatures those Grassinis
are!" Martini said contemptuously to Gemma as
they crossed the Signoria square one bright, cold
Sunday morning. "Did you notice the way
Grassini bowed when the Cardinal's carriage drove
up? It's all one to them who a man is, so long as
he's talked about. I never saw such lion-hunters
in my life. Only last August it was the Gadfly;
now it's Montanelli. I hope His Eminence feels
flattered at the attention; a precious lot of adventurers
have shared it with him."
They had been hearing Montanelli preach in
the Cathedral; and the great building had been so
thronged with eager listeners that Martini, fearing
a return of Gemma's troublesome headaches,
had persuaded her to come away before the Mass
was over. The sunny morning, the first after a
week of rain, offered him an excuse for suggesting
a walk among the garden slopes by San Niccolo.
"No," she answered; "I should like a walk if
you have time; but not to the hills. Let us keep
along the Lung'Arno; Montanelli will pass on his
way back from church and I am like Grassini--
I want to see the notability."
"But you have just seen him."
"Not close. There was such a crush in the
Cathedral, and his back was turned to us when the
carriage passed. If we keep near to the bridge
we shall be sure to see him well--he is staying
on the Lung'Arno, you know."
"But what has given you such a sudden fancy
to see Montanelli? You never used to care about
famous preachers."
"It is not famous preachers; it is the man himself;
I want to see how much he has changed since I saw him last."
"When was that?"
"Two days after Arthur's death."
Martini glanced at her anxiously. They had
come out on to the Lung'Arno, and she was staring
absently across the water, with a look on her
face that he hated to see.
"Gemma, dear," he said after a moment; "are
you going to let that miserable business haunt
you all your life? We have all made mistakes
when we were seventeen."
"We have not all killed our dearest friend when
we were seventeen," she answered wearily; and,
leaning her arm on the stone balustrade of the
bridge, looked down into the river. Martini held
his tongue; he was almost afraid to speak to her
when this mood was on her.
"I never look down at water without remembering,"
she said, slowly raising her eyes to his;
then with a nervous little shiver: "Let us walk
on a bit, Cesare; it is chilly for standing."
They crossed the bridge in silence and walked
on along the river-side. After a few minutes she
spoke again.
"What a beautiful voice that man has! There
is something about it that I have never heard in
any other human voice. I believe it is the secret
of half his influence."
"It is a wonderful voice," Martini assented,
catching at a subject of conversation which might
lead her away from the dreadful memory called up
by the river, "and he is, apart from his voice,
about the finest preacher I have ever heard. But
I believe the secret of his influence lies deeper than
that. It is the way his life stands out from that
of almost all the other prelates. I don't know
whether you could lay your hand on one other
high dignitary in all the Italian Church--except
the Pope himself--whose reputation is so utterly
spotless. I remember, when I was in the Romagna
last year, passing through his diocese and
seeing those fierce mountaineers waiting in the
rain to get a glimpse of him or touch his dress.
He is venerated there almost as a saint; and that
means a good deal among the Romagnols, who
generally hate everything that wears a cassock. I
remarked to one of the old peasants,--as typical
a smuggler as ever I saw in my life,--that the
people seemed very much devoted to their bishop,
and he said: 'We don't love bishops, they are
liars; we love Monsignor Montanelli. Nobody has
ever known him to tell a lie or do an unjust thing.'"
"I wonder," Gemma said, half to herself, "if he
knows the people think that about him."
"Why shouldn't he know it? Do you think it
is not true?"
"I know it is not true."
"How do you know it?"
"Because he told me so."
"HE told you? Montanelli? Gemma, what do you mean?"
She pushed the hair back from her forehead and
turned towards him. They were standing still
again, he leaning on the balustrade and she slowly
drawing lines on the pavement with the point of
her umbrella.
"Cesare, you and I have been friends for all
these years, and I have never told you what really
happened about Arthur."
"There is no need to tell me, dear," he broke
in hastily; "I know all about it already."
"Giovanni told you?"
"Yes, when he was dying. He told me about
it one night when I was sitting up with him. He
said---- Gemma, dear, I had better tell you the
truth, now we have begun talking about it--he
said that you were always brooding over that
wretched story, and he begged me to be as good
a friend to you as I could and try to keep you
from thinking of it. And I have tried to, dear,
though I may not have succeeded--I have,
indeed."
"I know you have," she answered softly, raising
her eyes for a moment; "I should have been
badly off without your friendship. But--Giovanni
did not tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?"
"No, I didn't know that he had anything to
do with it. What he told me was about--all that
affair with the spy, and about----"
"About my striking Arthur and his drowning
himself. Well, I will tell you about Montanelli."
They turned back towards the bridge over which
the Cardinal's carriage would have to pass.
Gemma looked out steadily across the water as
she spoke.
"In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was
Director of the Theological Seminary at Pisa, and
used to give Arthur lessons in philosophy and read
with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They
were perfectly devoted to each other; more like
two lovers than teacher and pupil. Arthur almost
worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on,
and I remember his once telling me that if he lost
his 'Padre'--he always used to call Montanelli so
--he should go and drown himself. Well, then
you know what happened about the spy. The
next day, my father and the Burtons--Arthur's
step-brothers, most detestable people--spent the
whole day dragging the Darsena basin for the
body; and I sat in my room alone and thought of
what I had done----"
She paused a moment, and went on again:
"Late in the evening my father came into my
room and said: 'Gemma, child, come downstairs;
there's a man I want you to see.' And when we
went down there was one of the students belonging
to the group sitting in the consulting room,
all white and shaking; and he told us about Giovanni's
second letter coming from the prison to
say that they had heard from the jailer about
Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked in the
confessional. I remember the student saying to
me: 'It is at least some consolation that we know
he was innocent' My father held my hands and
tried to comfort me; he did not know then about
the blow. Then I went back to my room and
sat there all night alone. In the morning my
father went out again with the Burtons to see the
harbour dragged. They had some hope of finding
the body there."
"It was never found, was it?"
"No; it must have got washed out to sea; but
they thought there was a chance. I was alone in
my room and the servant came up to say that a
'reverendissimo padre' had called and she had
told him my father was at the docks and he had
gone away. I knew it must be Montanelli; so I
ran out at the back door and caught him up at
the garden gate. When I said: 'Canon Montanelli,
I want to speak to you,' he just stopped and
waited silently for me to speak. Oh, Cesare, if
you had seen his face--it haunted me for months
afterwards! I said: 'I am Dr. Warren's daughter,
and I have come to tell you that it is I who have
killed Arthur.' I told him everything, and he
stood and listened, like a figure cut in stone, till
I had finished; then he said: 'Set your heart at
rest, my child; it is I that am a murderer, not you.
I deceived him and he found it out.' And with
that he turned and went out at the gate without
another word."
"And then?"
"I don't know what happened to him after that;
I heard the same evening that he had fallen down
in the street in a kind of fit and had been carried
into a house near the docks; but that is all
I know. My father did everything he could for
me; when I told him about it he threw up
his practice and took me away to England at
once, so that I should never hear anything that
could remind me. He was afraid I should end in
the water, too; and indeed I believe I was near it
at one time. But then, you know, when we found
out that my father had cancer I was obliged to
come to myself--there was no one else to nurse
him. And after he died I was left with the little
ones on my hands until my elder brother was able
to give them a home. Then there was Giovanni.
Do you know, when he came to England we were
almost afraid to meet each other with that frightful
memory between us. He was so bitterly
remorseful for his share in it all--that unhappy
letter he wrote from prison. But I believe,
really, it was our common trouble that drew us
together."
Martini smiled and shook his head.
"It may have been so on your side," he said;
"but Giovanni had made up his mind from the
first time he ever saw you. I remember his coming
back to Milan after that first visit to Leghorn
and raving about you to me till I was perfectly
sick of hearing of the English Gemma. I thought
I should hate you. Ah! there it comes!"
The carriage crossed the bridge and drove up to
a large house on the Lung'Arno. Montanelli was
leaning back on the cushions as if too tired to
care any longer for the enthusiastic crowd which
had collected round the door to catch a glimpse of
him. The inspired look that his face had worn
in the Cathedral had faded quite away and the
sunlight showed the lines of care and fatigue.
When he had alighted and passed, with the heavy,
spiritless tread of weary and heart-sick old age,
into the house, Gemma turned away and walked
slowly to the bridge. Her face seemed for a moment
to reflect the withered, hopeless look of his.
Martini walked beside her in silence.
"I have so often wondered," she began again
after a little pause; "what he meant about the
deception. It has sometimes occurred to me----"
"Yes?"
"Well, it is very strange; there was the
most extraordinary personal resemblance between
them."
"Between whom?"
"Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I
who noticed it. And there was something mysterious
in the relationship between the members
of that household. Mrs. Burton, Arthur's mother,
was one of the sweetest women I ever knew. Her
face had the same spiritual look as Arthur's, and
I believe they were alike in character, too. But
she always seemed half frightened, like a detected
criminal; and her step-son's wife used to treat
her as no decent person treats a dog. And then
Arthur himself was such a startling contrast to
all those vulgar Burtons. Of course, when one
is a child one takes everything for granted; but
looking back on it afterwards I have often wondered
whether Arthur was really a Burton."
"Possibly he found out something about his
mother--that may easily have been the cause of
his death, not the Cardi affair at all," Martini
interposed, offering the only consolation he could
think of at the moment. Gemma shook her
head.
"If you could have seen his face after I struck
him, Cesare, you would not think that. It may
be all true about Montanelli--very likely it is--
but what I have done I have done."
They walked on a little way without speaking,
"My dear," Martini said at last; "if there were
any way on earth to undo a thing that is once
done, it would be worth while to brood over our
old mistakes; but as it is, let the dead bury their
dead. It is a terrible story, but at least the
poor lad is out of it now, and luckier than some
of those that are left--the ones that are in exile
and in prison. You and I have them to think of,
we have no right to eat out our hearts for the
dead. Remember what your own Shelley says:
'The past is Death's, the future is thine own.'
Take it, while it is still yours, and fix your mind,
not on what you may have done long ago to hurt,
but on what you can do now to help."
In his earnestness he had taken her hand. He
dropped it suddenly and drew back at the sound
of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.
"Monsignor Montan-n-nelli," murmured this
languid voice, "is undoubtedly all you say, my
dear doctor. In fact, he appears to be so much
too good for this world that he ought to be politely
escorted into the next. I am sure he would
cause as great a sensation there as he has done
here; there are p-p-probably many old-established
ghosts who have never seen such a thing as an
honest cardinal. And there is nothing that ghosts
love as they do novelties----"
"How do you know that?" asked Dr. Riccardo's
voice in a tone of ill-suppressed irritation.
"From Holy Writ, my dear sir. If the Gospel
is to be trusted, even the most respectable of all
Ghosts had a f-f-fancy for capricious alliances.
Now, honesty and c-c-cardinals--that seems to
me a somewhat capricious alliance, and rather an
uncomfortable one, like shrimps and liquorice.
Ah, Signor Martini, and Signora Bolla! Lovely
weather after the rain, is it not? Have you been
to hear the n-new Savonarola, too?"
Martini turned round sharply. The Gadfly,
with a cigar in his mouth and a hot-house flower
in his buttonhole, was holding out to him a slender,
carefully-gloved hand. With the sunlight reflected
in his immaculate boots and glancing back
from the water on to his smiling face, he looked
to Martini less lame and more conceited than
usual. They were shaking hands, affably on the
one side and rather sulkily on the other, when
Riccardo hastily exclaimed:
"I am afraid Signora Bolla is not well!"
She was so pale that her face looked almost livid
under the shadow of her bonnet, and the ribbon
at her throat fluttered perceptibly from the violent
beating of the heart.
"I will go home," she said faintly.
A cab was called and Martini got in with her
to see her safely home. As the Gadfly bent down
to arrange her cloak, which was hanging over the
wheel, he raised his eyes suddenly to her face, and
Martini saw that she shrank away with a look of
something like terror.
"Gemma, what is the matter with you?" he
asked, in English, when they had started. "What
did that scoundrel say to you?"
"Nothing, Cesare; it was no fault of his. I--
I--had a fright----"
"A fright?"
"Yes; I fancied----" She put one hand over
her eyes, and he waited silently till she should
recover her self-command. Her face was already
regaining its natural colour.
"You are quite right," she said at last, turning
to him and speaking in her usual voice; "it is
worse than useless to look back at a horrible past.
It plays tricks with one's nerves and makes one
imagine all sorts of impossible things. We will
NEVER talk about that subject again, Cesare, or I
shall see fantastic likenesses to Arthur in every
face I meet. It is a kind of hallucination, like
a nightmare in broad daylight. Just now, when
that odious little fop came up, I fancied it was
Arthur."
